


Don't Walk on the Oozing Wound

by hailingstars



Series: good kid [3]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gunshot Wounds, Hospitals, Hurt Peter Parker, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Parent Tony Stark, Protective Tony Stark, Recovery, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, author is not a medical professional, complicated aunt may, it will show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-10-16 00:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17539073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailingstars/pseuds/hailingstars
Summary: Peter just wanted a sandwich from Delmar's. He got three bullets instead, and it's too bad his Spidey powers are gone just like Aunt May, because staying at the hospital is the last thing anyone wants to do.





	1. 1

The day Peter got shot started off well, and that should have been his first clue, really. Peter Parker just didn’t have good days. Not anymore.

That morning he woke up to his alarm. Not to Mr. Stark or Pepper dragging him out from under his covers. His favorite songs played while he showered, and then once he was dressed for the day, he jetted off downstairs to the kitchen. He had been determined to return to normalcy, to reclaim as much of his old life as could, and that meant making himself breakfast.

His eyes trailed over the large kitchen once he reached the bottom of the stairs. His hand gripped the steel railing to his side. It was intimidating. Practically a stranger’s kitchen, and Peter didn’t know where to begin. Up until then, he’d been perfectly content eating pop-tarts and cereal, or even whatever food Mr. Stark attempted to make for him. 

He took a breath, then got to work.

It was a series of stumbling around at first, a series of opening and shutting drawers and cabinets until he found his ingredients. And then, once everything was aligned on the counter top, the rest easy. He made his famous omelets. He made them for himself, and for Mr. Stark and Pepper, too. He needed them to be famous again. The only other person he cooked them for, the one who dubbed them famous, wasn’t around to appreciate them anymore.

Mr. Stark made his entrance by hurrying down the stairs, pausing at the same place Peter had, looking confused and worried. His eyes flickered back and forth from Peter to the plate piled with omelets, before he marched slow and steady into the kitchen and put the back of his hand against Peter’s forehead.

“Are you sick?” he asked. His hand moved to clamp down on top of Peter’s damp hair. “And you already showered? I’m calling the doctor.” 

Peter ducked down and out from under his hand. “I made breakfast.”

“I see that,” said Mr. Stark. There was still suspicion in his eyes, but also, there was something else. Something that completely overpowered the suspiciousness when the two of them sat across from each other at the dining room table with their breakfast and Mr. Stark took his first bite. “Pete… this is the omelet I’ve ever tasted.”

He couldn’t help his grin. It was true Mr. Stark’s compliment had less to do with the actual omelet and more to do with Peter making it out of bed. That was fine. Peter’s grin had less to do with the compliment and more to do with being able to give Mr. Stark a reason to quit worrying about him so much.

As it turned out, this was a bit premature. Mr. Stark had every reason to keep on worrying about him.

They both should have known it was too good to be true. All the signs were there. There weren’t any disagreements at the breakfast table, even with Pepper sleeping in, and even with Peter asking if he could hang out with Ned after school in Queens. Mr. Stark agreed. Peter didn’t fight it when he was slipped some spending money. Just a couple of twenties. A noticeable improvement from the multiple hundreds he would try to gift him with in the beginning.

“Got your watch?” Mr. Stark called after him, as he swung his book bag over his shoulders and headed towards the elevator.

Peter turned, raised his right hand pushed down his sleeve, revealing the shiny and sleek black watch Mr. Stark built for him. He nodded his approval, and Peter went on his way, waiting for the elevator to take him down to the front entrance where Happy waited to take him to school.

The drive there, just like the rest of the day, went by like a breeze. 

There was just a slight bump in the day, in gym, while they were supposed to be doing sit-ups.

“I guess Penis really was Tony Stark’s intern,” said Flash. He was talking to his friends, but his volume implied he wanted everyone, including Peter and Ned, to overhear him. “Guess now he gets to be his charity case scheme for improving his PR.”

“Forget him,” said Ned, and Peter did.

The comment didn’t bother him as much as he thought it should, and by the time him and Ned were out of school and standing in line at Delmar’s, he’d forgotten.

“Are you coming over after this?” asked Ned.

“I can’t,” said Peter. “Mr. Stark wants me home by seven.”

This was something that couldn’t be connected with his life from before. May was never one to be a curfew setter, especially towards the end of their life together, and also, it was a reminder of his missing powers. Spider-Man was allowed out at all hours, but regular, normal teenage boys had early, unfair curfews. At least they did if it was Mr. Stark making the curfews for them.

“You still call him Mr. Stark? Even now that you’re living with him?” 

Peter adjusted the strap of his book bag and stood on his tippy toes in attempt to see what was taking so long up front. Mr. Delmar and another man, a customer, were arguing. He fell back on his feet with a mental sigh. All he wanted was a sandwich. One that would taste like home.

“He doesn’t care what I call him,” said Peter. That was a lie. Back when he first came to live with him, Mr. Stark tried to get him to call him Tony. He has since given up. “Just… calling him Tony would make everything… real.” 

“It’s real enough already, dude,” said Ned. He lifted Peter’s hand by the watch.  

“That’s… not what it looks like,” said Peter. “It’s, uh, a safety precaution. In case I accidentally eat something I’m allergic too. It injects epinephrine.”

“Really?” asked Ned. He examined the watch more closely, before Peter gently jerked his hand away. “That’s so awesome. It’s a tracker, too, right? What else does it do?”

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but his voice couldn’t be heard over the sound of a single gunshot.

The sound was deafening, and it sent everyone in the shop to the ground on their bellies. Except Peter.

He stayed standing upright as time seemed to slow down. He needed to make sure Mr. Delmar was okay, and he was okay. Alive, at least, even if he was staring down the barrel of a gun with a bullet hole in the wall behind him. 

“I’m not gonna fucking tell you again,” said the man. He was red in the face, either from anger or from all the arguing with Mr. Delmar. His voice shook, but his arm didn’t. It stayed steady with the gun pointed at Ben’s forehead.

Mr. Delmar. The gun was pointed at Mr. Delmar’s forehead, but not even self-correction could stop the fracturing of Peter’s brain waves. Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe that’s what it felt like when things got put back, got rewired the correct way. The image of Mr. Delmar being held at gunpoint, and in consequence, Ben in the same position, was a painful reminder why the world needed him to be Spider-Man.

The gunman took his finger off the trigger, just slightly. Peter took the opportunity.

He charged at him, collided with him, and they both went tumbling to the floor. It was no good, though. The force of Peter’s tackle hadn’t been strong enough to part the man with his gun, and he hit him with it, across the back of the head. He pushed Peter aside and stood.

“Dumb ass kid,” he said. He kicked him in the stomach. “Stay down.”

He lifted his eyes despite the pain in his head and in his stomach and made eye-contact with Ned. He was mouthing something to him, but Peter couldn’t make it out. Ned repeated it over and over again. No luck. The pounding in his head made it hard to concentrate on lip reading. There was one word that was unmistakable, though.

Spider-Man. 

Peter figured Ned was confused. He hadn’t bothered telling him that his powers left him the same way Aunt May did. Peter was confused, too. He thought they would come back if he were in danger, like the time he crushed his phone as he fell from the roof, but if they had, he would have easily taken the man down.

“You hear me?” shouted the gunman. He was still standing there. Right above him. “Fucking stay down.”

Peter couldn’t do that anymore.

Once Mr. Stark told him he wasn’t going to let him sleep his life away, and it wasn’t until then that Peter knew he meant it in more than one way. He was tired of sleeping. He was tired of staying down. With or without his powers, with or without May, life marched on. So would he.

He waited until the gunman turned his back, then sprung to his feet, ignoring the dizziness, and bringing them both back down to the floor. It didn’t go much better than last time. Peter’s powers don’t make entrance. Peter was pinned quickly, hit across the front of his face with gun, and screamed at.

“You think this is a game?” His words were unnerved and angry. It was a combination Peter knew spelled trouble for him, knew it even before the gun blasted off once, twice, then three times. “There. Maybe that’ll teach you to listen to the man with the gun." 

The pain wasn’t immediate. There was a brief pause in the universe, or at least, in his universe, as his brain tried to process what had happened. Then he looked down. He saw the three holes in his leg, and then it was on fire. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming out loud, bit it so hard he tasted his own blood, but he didn’t care. 

He wouldn’t give that asshole the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

Ned screamed though, and Mr. Delmar shouted.

“What’s the matter with you, huh? You just shot a kid!”

Someone else piped in, “Dude. That’s Tony Stark’s kid.”

There was a rebuttal on Peter’s lips. Not biologically. He wanted to add that in somewhere, but he didn’t trust himself to open his mouth with cursing or screaming. The guy who shot him didn’t look much better off. His eyes were wide with realization and fear.

“ _Shit.”_

“Better get out of here, man. Tony Stark has, like, cameras everywhere. Probably on his way already.”

Footsteps hurried out of the grocery store, and Peter let out a pained gasp as he threw his head against the floor. All he wanted was a sandwich, one that tasted like home, but all he could taste was metal as he bled out on Mr. Delmar’s floor.

* * *

Mr. Stark showed up before any of the ambulances.

Peter heard him, heard the sound of clanking walk into the store, and knew immediately, without looking, he came dressed in his armor. A fury entered the room with him. It was something Peter felt in the air as Mr. Delmar secured a torn piece of his shirt around the wound on his leg. He gasped with pain as the final knot was tied tight, and Ned pushed down harder on his shoulder to keep him on the floor.

“Where is he?” asked Mr. Stark.  

That felt like a dumb question, and it took Peter a couple of seconds to figure out Mr. Stark hadn’t been talking about him, to catch onto his tone and the dangerous undercurrent that carried it across the room. That wasn’t a tone that he would ever use to talk about Peter. Mr. Stark was looking for someone else. He was looking for blood.

“He ran,” said Mr. Delmar.

“Which way?”

Peter heard the clanking again, but this time, it was getting further away.

“No! Wait,” said Peter. He tried to sit up but cringed with pain. Instead he turned his head right there on the floor and saw Mr. Stark standing in the doorway. “S-stay, please?”

The fury vanished from the atmosphere Mr. Stark locked eyes with him. He walked away from the door, kneeled down next to him, placed a hand on his other shoulder and removed his face plate. That was better. Iron Man was comforting, but Peter needed to look at real eyes.

It was starting to get cold, and he was starting to get scared. 

“It h-hurts.”

“I know,” said Mr. Stark. “But you’re gonna be fine, Pete.”

His eyes didn’t match his words. They stared at his leg wound, and Peter barely resisted the urge to look at it again. He imagined it was a lot worse than before. Both his slowed breathing and the chill under his skin were important clues that his blood was probably soaking through his jeans and Mr. Delmar’s shirt.

“I’m just gonna give you a lift, so we can get you to the hospital faster, alright?” 

Peter’s nod was sluggish and slow, but Mr. Stark was quick. He had one arm locked under his shoulders and his other pulled up on the back side of Peter’s knees. He picked him up easily. Peter felt like he was weightless. Like a ragdoll, he went limp in Mr. Stark’s arms. He tucked his head into his chest and shut his eyes tight.

“FRIDAY, make sure Bellevue is ready for us,” said Mr. Stark. A light breeze blew through Peter’s hair, and it was his only indication that they’d left the grocery store. “You’re gonna have to hold on Pete, can you do that?”

He wrapped his arms around Mr. Stark, and his grip was questionable. Not only was he weak by Spider-Man standards, but also, he was weak by Peter Parker standards. Mr. Stark must not have thought it was strong enough, either. The arm supporting his shoulders disappeared. The one supporting his legs stayed.

Peter expected the flight to be bumpy since Mr. Stark only had one hand to steer, but he barely noticed they were in the air at all. He didn’t realize when they hit the ground, or even when they hospital. At least not until Mr. Stark was putting him down on something soft and he heard the scrambling of doctors and nurses and their urgent, fast talking.

A panic caught him, his head swam, and he held onto to Mr. Stark tighter. He knew, from the movies, that this was the part where Mr. Stark would leave him and let the medical staff wheel him away to surgery.  

“Pete you have to let go of me now.”

“No.” 

Mr. Stark easily removed himself from Peter’s grip, and gently pushed him so he was lying down on the stretcher. Peter opened his eyes. He intended to convey every ounce of the betrayal he felt with that one look, but his eyes ended up teary instead.

“I want you to come with me,” said Peter. He didn’t care that doctors and nurses were waiting and watching. They might as well not have been there at all.

“You know I can’t do that,” said Mr. Stark. “But I will be here when you wake up.”

“N-no. Just don’t go. Not you too.”

Mr. Stark looked conflicted, almost pained, as he ran an iron-covered hand through his hair. Peter tried to hold onto it, to make his hand and the rest of him stay, but his arms didn’t seem to want to obey him anymore and they stayed limply by his sides. Mr. Stark stepped away from the stretched and gave a nod to one of the doctors.

He wasn’t ready to be wheeled off to surgery, but they wheeled him down the hall towards the swinging, double doors, anyway. Someone put a mask over his nose and mouth. Someone else ordered him to start counting backwards. He didn’t. He just laid there until there was nothing. 

* * *

 Peter was drifting at sea, and he wanted to stay there, rocking around on that boat, forever. There wasn’t anything troubling about the waves, or anything frightening about the nothingness in front of him. Behind him was different. There was a shore he wanted to stay away from, an island he didn’t want to be trapped on, but there was also a slow, steady persistent beep. It drug him backwards, closer to shore, until he was forced into awareness.

He wasn’t staring out at the sea. He was staring straight up at a white ceiling in a hospital room.

The last place anyone wanted to be.

So much for reclaiming normalcy. Every time he took a couple of steps forward, life tossed him twelve steps backwards. 

He shifted his head to the side and searched the room for Mr. Stark. The last thing he remembered was his promise to be there when he woke up, and Peter desperately needed that to be true. 

His eyes found Iron Man. Literally Iron Man, in plush form, sitting on a small wooden table next to his bed. The stuffed toy held a sign that said get well soon, and was surrounded by boxes of candy, flowers and other knickknacks commonly found in hospital giftshops. Then Peter saw the real Tony Stark. He sat on a couch behind the table filled with gifts. He used one of his hands to support his head as he scrolled with his thumb on his cellphone.

“Mr. Stark?” tried Peter. His voice was groggy, but it worked.

His head popped up. His attention diverted away from the phone immediately.

“Where did all this stuff come from?” he asked, looking at the stack of presents again. By the quantity of the presents, he feared he’d been asleep for days.

Mr. Stark abandoned the couch and walked over to stand by his bedside. “I don’t really do waiting rooms, kid. I just couldn’t… sit there… doing nothing, so I found the gift shop while I was pacing around and well, I guess it made me feel like I was doing something.”

Peter imagined Mr. Stark frantically buying everything in the giftshop, forcing himself to stay at the hospital so he would be there when he woke up, even though Peter knew what he really wanted to do to feel useful was hunt down the man who shot him. He reached over to the table and grabbed the Iron Man plush.

“Thanks,” said Peter. He allowed a small smile as he held the plush his lap. “I love this, Mr. Stark.”

He ran a tentative hand through Peter’s hair again. This time it was his real hand, and he let it rest between his ear and eyes for a few seconds before withdrawing and taking a few steps backwards. “So, you’re really awake now? Last time you woke up you were rambling about being on a boat.”

Peter frowned. He didn’t remember that, but before he could stress about any other embarrassing things he might’ve said, Mr. Stark moved on.

“What were you thinking, Pete? Never charge a man with a gun.”

“I just couldn’t… couldn’t stay down anymore,” said Peter. He looked at his leg covered up with a hospital blanket. It was probably good he couldn’t see it. He didn’t think his stomach could handle the gore. “Is it… am I okay?”

“You did well in surgery. The doc said he’s optimistic for a full recovery, no lasting damages.” 

“So we can go home.” 

A solemn pause was enough to make Peter’s stomach drop, and the answer that followed it didn’t do anything to improve the silence. It was Mr. Stark’s round way of saying no, one that made Peter wish he was just direct.

“You were shot three times and it’s clear your healing isn’t working like it. You’ll make a full recovery. That just takes time for us normal people.”  

“How long do I have to stay here?” 

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Stark. “Three or four days, maybe.” 

Peter looked back at the plush in his hands and unraveled the string holding the get well sign in place. He discarded it in the mess of gifts on the table. He didn’t want it mocking him anymore. There wasn’t any soon without his powers, and it was hard to believe that just that morning he sat at the kitchen table eating omelets with Mr. Stark, smiling and determined. That earlier he longed to be back in Queens eating sandwiches from Delmar’s and now he just wanted to be in his bedroom at the penthouse. It felt like the universe was trying to take all his homes away, to erase all his progress before he even made any.

“It’s gonna fly by. I’m going to make sure they put you in a good room once you’re out of recovery, and I’m gonna call Pepper and have her bring the blanket from your bed and your real clothes. Just think of it as an extension of your spring break, like staying at a hotel, okay?” 

“Okay,” said Peter, resigned to his fate. 

“And I’m going to stay with you,” he said. “The whole time.”

Peter felt like Mr. Stark should’ve led with that. The thought of spending any amount of time in that hospital alone filled him with so much he even say the polite thing and tell Mr. Stark he didn’t have to. He was afraid the man might change his mind. Instead he nodded, and looked back down at his leg covered in hospital blanket and wondered how long a wound like that would take to heal.


	2. 2

Peter split his attention between the TV hanging above his bed on the wall, his cellphone that he gripped in his hand, and the shower water that ran in the connecting bathroom. None of it belonged on the plate of food Mr. Stark had sat in front of him before he disappeared into the bathroom. It was baked chicken and steamed vegetables and a baked potato, and it all smelled really good, but Peter’s stomach hadn’t agreed with some of the pain medication from the night before.

He didn’t want a repeat of that, of spending hours throwing up into a trash can while Mr. Stark rubbed his back and pretended he wasn’t completely grossed out. He would never admit it, but Peter knew Mr. Stark didn’t want that, either, even if he was the very person trying to push all this food down his throat.

If Peter could go back in time, it would be to the seconds before his doctor handed Mr. Stark the recovering from surgery pamphlets. He took those things way too seriously, and it was ruining his life. Like right then, for example, he just wanted to watch the news reports on TV and not worry about whether the chicken on his plate would come back up if he put it in his belly, but he knew if he didn’t at least start on his food before Mr. Stark emerged from the shower, the nagging would make him nauseous instead of the food.

He picked up the fork, held it loose in his hand, and watched the news with a grin. The commentary around his getting shot, or more importantly, Mr. Stark’s reaction to him getting shot, amused him to no end. Some with a mustache yapped about the safety of New York City while red letters ran on a loop at the bottom of the screen.

TONY STARK UNLEASHES SURVEILANCE BOTS ON NEW YORK CITY

Over and over again it trailed across the bottom of the screen, until it lost all absurdity and became normal, at least to Peter. Stuffy commentators on the news had their opinions, and those opinions are hilarious. He didn’t care about these random people on the news thought about Mr. Stark’s insane method to find the man who shot, just cared that he didn’t leave him at the hospital alone, and he hadn’t. 

He let his eyes drift over to the makeshift office Mr. Stark had made in the corner of the room. On the coffee table next to the couch he slept on, there was a series of laptops, connected to each other with wires and other extricate electronics. It was the control center for those robots flying all over the city, searching for the gunman.

Peter heard the water shut off in the bathroom, and he quickly looked back down at his food. Time was running out. He forced a bite of the bake potato down and surprised himself by eating the entire thing before Mr. Stark appeared from the bathroom with a tooth brush hanging out of his mouth and wet hair.

He looked down at Peter’s plate, then back up at him. He pulled the tooth brush out from his mouth and pointed at Peter.

“Do I have to get on you about eating your vegetables like you’re five?”

Peter sighed and ruminated on his jealously that Mr. Stark was up and around and clean. Simple actions like taking a shower were out of reach with fresh stitches and a healing leg wound.

“And what did I say about watching the news?”

“Umm that I should?”

“Turn it off,” said Mr. Stark. Peter picked up the remote and switched off the TV. “Don’t look so sad about it. Rhodey’s coming over to visit.” 

Peter’s eyes flickered back up to Mr. Stark’s wet hair. He put a hand thought his own and cringed. It was gross after sweating and throwing up all night and while he did manage to get into the bathroom to wash off with a washcloth, he wasn’t able to do anything about his hair.

He just wasn’t strong enough yet to stand on one leg while bending over the sink, and his wheelchair wouldn’t stay in one spot whenever he tried to put his head down in the sink.

“Uh, will Pepper be here tonight?” 

“She’s Pepper, now is she?” asked Mr. Stark. His tone was light, like a joke, but Peter could tell, there was real hurt behind the words. “She got caught up at work. Not tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Peter stared at Mr. Stark. He couldn’t believe he was about to ask Iron Man to help him wash his hair, but the alternative seemed worse. “Well the doctor won’t let me take showers yet and I can’t really bend my head over the sink without standing up for a long time – “

“You need help washing your hair.” 

“Yes.”

“I… I can help with hair,” he said. He pointed back to the plate of food. “Eat your dinner first.”

“Seriously?”

Mr. Stark popped the tooth brush back in his mouth and made a face that compelled Peter to finish eating. His fear of throwing up again had come and gone anyway, and once he was completely finished, he batted Mr. Stark’s hand away as the man tried to help him off the bed and into the wheelchair. He could do it himself. Determined to maintain every ounce of independence as he could, he used one of the crutches to lower himself in the wheelchair and swiped his cellphone from his bed after he was successful. 

“I know your generation is addicted to their phones, but do you really need to take it with you to the bathroom?” 

“I might get a call.” 

“Peter I saw you ignore three calls from Ned this morning,” said Mr. Stark. “Listen I don’t want you to get your ho – “ 

“-Just don’t, okay?” 

“Okay,” said Mr. Stark. He threw his hands up in the air in mock surrender, then gripped the back of the wheelchair and pushed him into the connecting bathroom. When he was positioned so his back was pressed up against the sink, he put his phone in his lap and listened to water pour from the facet.

Very cold water that was suddenly being flicked at him. 

Peter jolted away from the sink. “That’s cold!” 

“Oh, it is?” asked Tony. He put his hand back under the stream and flicked more at him. “Feels fine to me.”

Peter stretched his own hand backward, and through the water and splashed some on Mr. Stark. He flinched, dramatically, and Peter laughed.

“Was that – did you laugh?” asked Mr. Stark. He adjusted the temperature of the water and wiggled his fingers through it. “I thought there was no happiness in hospitals?”

“I was on drugs when I said that.”

“Pshhh you’re still on drugs,” said Mr. Stark. “Lay your head back.”

Peter looked up and blinked.

“It’s fine now,” said Mr. Stark. He flicked more water at him. “See? Lay your head back.”

“Just don’t get shampoo in my eyes.”

Still eying Mr. Stark with a bit of mistrust, Peter laid his head over the sink and let the warm water run through his hair. It wasn’t until Mr. Stark massaged shampoo through his hair that he realized Ned had been right those few seconds before Peter got gunned down. The watch hadn’t been enough to prove to Peter all this was real, but sharing a hospital room with someone, relying on them this way, that kind of evidence couldn’t be ignored.

By the time the conditioner was washed out and the water was turned off, Mr. Stark became Tony, even if it was just in his own mind, and Tony was rubbing a towel on his head, drying him off. Once that was finished, he lifted his head and picked his cellphone back up from his lap, turning it over and over in his hands.

“She’s not going to call, is she?” 

“No, kid, I’m sorry.” 

“She doesn’t even care I almost died.”

Tony stepped in front of him, but his focus was on the towel in his hands, as he dried them off. “She does care. She… called me and asked if you were okay.”

“She didn’t want to talk to me?”

“She didn’t want to upset you." 

“Tony,” said Peter, and his head snapped up from what he was doing. He looked happy, for a moment, before Peter opened his mouth and ruined it. “I’m already upset.”

“Yeah,” said Tony. He gestured to the open bathroom door by titling his head. “Let’s get you back in bed, alright?”

Peter nodded and let Tony wheel him back into the hospital room, where Rhodey was waiting for them. One look at his leg braces made Peter feel sort of guilty of being so dramatic about not being able to walk without crutches for a while. At least it wasn’t permanent. 

Rhodey looked annoyed, not at Peter, but at Tony, and since Peter felt he should stay as quiet and as unnoticeable as possible when the two adults in the room were about to throw down, he allowed Tony to help him into his bed without protesting. Once he was settled under his covers, the ones that had been brought from his bedroom as promised, Rhodey was the first to speak.

“Tony you cannot fill the streets of New York City with thousands of your weapons,” he said. “It makes people nervous.”

Tony took a seat at the end of Peter’s bed, by his feet, and laid his hands down flat on the mattress. “Uh they’re cameras, not weapons, and the only person who needs to be nervous is the asshole who shot my kid.” 

“Let the police handle this, Tones, it’s their job.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t seem particularly interested in doing their job,” said Tony. He leaned his head back to look at Peter. “Right, Pete?”

“Um – “ 

“Cut the shit, this isn’t about the police doing their job, it’s about you wanting to get your hands on him first,” said Rhodey. “Call them off. 

All three fell silent when Rhodey’s phone started buzzing. He held up a finger to tell them he’d be right back and stepped out of the room. The whole argument, as short as it was, left a bad taste in Peter’s mouth. Those news reports didn’t seem so hilarious anymore. He felt dumb. He felt childish for believing Tony Stark was tracking down his shooter just so he could drop him off at the police department with a clever sticky note attached to his forehead.

Of course not. Tony was Avenger. He avenged, but still, it felt wrong to Peter that word meant the same as revenge. 

Rhodey popped his head back into the room, only long enough to say he needed to leave and hit Tony with another stern look. Things were quiet after that. Peter put on a movie, since he wasn’t allowed to watch news and after that argument no longer wanted to, and Tony retreated back to his makeshift workstation to check the surveillance footage.

Peter couldn’t concentrate on the movie. His thoughts were split into two, and they were warring with each other. By the time the credits rolled, and Tony walked back over from his temporary office and asked him how the movie was, he wasn’t even sure what he’d just watched.

“It was okay,” he said. “Um Tony? What did Rhodey mean about you getting your hands on him first? Like he just meant you wanted to catch him, so he’ll to jail and not shot anyone else, right?”

The look Tony gave him made him feel even more stupid, even more like a child, and he immediately wished he could take his long, rambling sentence back. Yet, he couldn’t stop his mouth from moving even more. 

“I… I don’t think… I think you should stop with the robots,” said Peter. “Why can’t we just let the police handle it?” 

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Why? Because I’m young and naïve?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Tony. He refused to raise his voice back, refused to argue, and that made it worse. That he was quietly confident in his position, the complete opposite of Peter.

He was shaking with insecurity. He should have done what Tony is doing now when Ben got shot, should’ve hunted that man down or even took care of him right there on the spot. He didn’t. He didn’t do anything, and if he had, maybe May would be able to love the part of him that was Spider-Man. She would still be there for him, and they would still be a family. 

“I don’t want to argue with you right now, Pete,” said Tony. “You’re tired, and it’s time for bed.” 

Peter stayed sitting up in his bed, stayed staring at Tony, until the man sighed and walked closer to him. 

“Scoot over,” said Tony. Peter didn’t move. “What? Just because you’re the one who was shot it means you get to hog the only bed? I’m old and the couch makes my back hurt. Scoot over.”

He slipped over to the other side of the bed, and Tony settled in next to him, putting an arm around him and it wasn’t fair how exhausted Peter felt in that moment, now that he felt it was safe to be. He would’ve let sleep take him right then and there, but he needed to know the truth about why May left, needed to know if it was what he suspected so he could decide how he was going to fix it. 

“Tony,” said Peter. “I know you’re trying to protect me, but I just… I need to know…why my aunt doesn’t want me anymore.”

“Peter I – “

“Please. I think I know… it’s because Spider-Man, even though you say it’s not, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Peter felt Tony tense up, but after a few beats, he sighed, and said, “It isn’t because Spider-Man. Not exactly. She just felt that… that she wasn’t capable of taking care of someone who’s in our line of work.” 

“… That’s the same thing.” 

“No, it isn’t,” said Tony. “Look she just couldn’t handle the idea of losing you and she couldn’t tell you to stop because she knows it’s who you are. She thinks she’s doing what’s best for you, and I’m not saying I agree, but it’s not something for you to worry about. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”  

“Okay.” 

Peter still thought there was something missing from his explanation. There were still tons of details he wanted to know, but at least he got the truth, or part of it, and with the truth came a plan, one that would prove to his aunt that she could love Spider-Man just as much as she loved Peter Parker.

He sank down in the bed and used Tony’s stomach as a pillow instead of his actual pillow. Tony adjusted his grip on his shoulders and rested his hand on Peter’s now clean and dry hair, occasionally running his fingers through it, until finally he drifted off, with no stomachache to wake him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much to everyone who is still reading and is being patient with this story. I know it's been forever since it's updated but this chapter, for whatever reason, gave me so many problems.


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been forever! Febuwhump took up so much more time than I expected it to, but now it's March and I want to start posting on this story regularly again. I'm aiming for every week or so, depending on how long a chapter/story ends up being.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been patient this past month and I hope to post the next part of this story soon!!

They released Peter from the hospital, but before they left the room, Pepper purged through all of Tony’s gift shop purchases.

Empty boxes of chocolate and dying flowers were thrown in the trash, and the other knickknacks were dispersed through the children’s ward.  Peter insisted on keeping the Iron Man plush, though, and it sat in his lap as Tony raced him through the hospital hallways in his wheelchair. They burst through the automatic doors as if they were crossing a finish line only to come to a sudden halt on the sidewalk. 

Outside greeted them with a warm breeze, a bright sun and a cloudless sky. Inside Peter still felt like it should be raining, but he appreciated nature’s attempt to cheer him up.

The drive back home from the hospital was short. He sat in the backseat, quietly, and listened to Tony and Pepper chat up front about very mundane things, then before he knew it, Tony helped him into his bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. 

“Try to get some rest,” he told him. He wiped the hair from his forehead and left the room. 

Peter looked around his big, empty room, alone for the first time since he had been bleeding out on Mr. Delmar’s floor. He missed his hospital room. He missed the focused attention that came with lying in a hospital bed, but he supposed he shouldn’t feel so entitled. Tony had better thing to do than to keep him company all day, like tracking down the shooter so he could deliver justice.

That didn’t seem like such a big deal to Peter anymore. Tony was just doing what men do, doing the right thing, and what Peter should’ve done when Ben was shot and killed. Peter planned to make up for that once his powers came back. 

If his powers came back. Peter went back and forth trying to decide if he want them, had restless internal debates on the best course of action to get May to come back. He could regain his powers, prove to her how useful they could be, or vanish them forever.

Peter’s phone rang, and a wild, reckless hope ignited in his chest.

It vibrated on his desk, oceans away from where he’d been tucked into his bed, with the expectation of him staying there. He sat up, shrugged the covers off, and looked at his crutches standing up against the wall only a few feet away, then his eyes fell on his leg where, under his pajamas, the wound was still covered with a bandage. 

The debate in his head went silent with his decision. He was going to be Spider-Man again, and Spider-Man didn’t lounge around and wait to be healed. Spider-Man healed fast. He swung his legs over the bed, and stood up, at first putting all his weight only on his good leg.

He took a breath, then he took off. The first step was fine, but the second sent a burst of pain shooting up and down his leg. He fell to the floor with a yelp, on the half-way point between his bed and his desk and couldn’t help the sudden tears that stung his eyes as his phone went still and silence up on the unreachable desk.

He was curled into a ball of the floor, gasping with pain, when he heard Tony’s hurried footsteps enter his bedroom.

“Peter?” 

He gave no response, but that didn’t matter. Tony was sitting on the floor next to him in a matter of seconds. His hands went under his armpits, and he tried to pull him up into his arms and onto his lap. Peter wouldn’t have it, though. He fought him, he pushed back and tried to ignore the pain in his leg as he did. 

“Peter stop it,” said Tony, but he couldn’t. 

He continued pushing back, continued the struggle on the floor of his bedroom, but it wasn’t a struggle that lasted very long. His arms gave up quickly, and he folded into Tony’s hold, letting the man hold the back of his head and press it into his chest. Peter sobbed into his shirt, both frustrated and somehow content to be overpowered. 

Maybe he hadn’t made up his mind yet. Maybe the debate was still playing on.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Tony. 

Peter had never heard Tony’s voice go that soft before that day, and he’d never been held onto quite so tightly. They stayed just like that, on the floor in the middle of the bedroom, until Peter felt his eyes get heavy and his breathing slowed down. Tony carried him back to bed, brought the covers back up to his chin, but this time, he wasn’t so quick to leave.

He sat on the edge of Peter’s bed. There was concern in his eyes, but he wasn’t speaking any of it out loud.

“I’m going to make us some lunch,” he said, after moments of silence. “Sound good?” 

Peter nodded, and Tony got up from the bed. He stopped by the bedroom door, looked over at the desk, then changed his route. Tony retrieved his phone, and brought to him, as if he read Peter’s mind, and left the room. 

Before looking at it, Peter took a deep breath. He expected, or rather hoped, to see an unknown, out of state number listed as his missed call, but he was disappointed when he saw it had just been Ned.

Ned, his best friend, who was still trying to contact him after he had been ignoring him. Ned, who wasn’t May, but was the very next person to walk into Peter’s bedroom. 

He brought a large, white paper bag and the familiar, glorious smell of sandwiches from Delmar’s with him. They were sandwiches that tasted like home. They were what started this mess, but Peter couldn’t help it. The second biggest tragedy of the day he got shot was not getting his sandwich, and that was about to be remedied.

It didn’t come without guilt, though. Peter hadn’t been a very good friend, and he could only say one thing.

“What – what are you doing here?”

Ned stood at his doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and crinkling the top of the Delmar’s bag. “Mr. Stark called and said you needed a friend. And some lunch.”

Tony did always seem to know what he needed the most. Even before Peter did.

“I brought sandwiches,” said Ned. He held up the bag, as if it needed an explanation, and walked further into the room. “I was gonna… visit sooner, when you were in the hospital, but you wouldn’t answer my calls. I didn’t think you wanted to see me.” 

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” said Peter. “Spider-Man is the best thing that ever happened to you, right? Well I’m not him, anymore. My powers are gone, Ned and I don’t even know if I want them to come back.”

Ned came closer and sat on the end of Peter’s bed. He put the Delmar’s bag down, gripped the edges of the mattress and looked at Peter. “Spider-Man’s cool and all, but Peter Parker is my best friend. So be Spider-Man, or don’t be him, but you’re always going to be Peter. We’re always going to be friends.”

Peter looked down. He was guilty and undeserving of a friend like Ned, who still called him and showed up with sandwiches even when he was being an asshole and ignoring him, even when he was disappointed to see his name flash across his cellphone screen just because it wasn’t somebody’s else.

Especially since that somebody didn’t afford Peter the same kind of unconditional friendship that Ned did. Peter was waiting for someone to call that could never really love him all the way, someone he’d have to prove part of himself to, and he didn’t have to do any of that with Ned or Tony or Pepper.

“I’m sorry, man,” said Peter. “That I didn’t answer when you kept calling.” 

“It’s okay,” said Ned. “I think getting shot is a pretty good excuse not to answer your phone when it rings.”

They traded smiles, then got to work on those sandwiches. They were gone quickly, and Peter, armed with his crutches took Ned down to the workshop to show him the Death Star Tony made for him back in California.

His cellphone stayed on his bed. Everyone he wanted to talk to was right there in the penthouse. 

* * *

 “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

Peter rolled his eyes and kept his attention on the stove and his half-formed pancakes. It took extra attention to cook breakfast since he had crutches under his arms to stand, and only one good leg to put his weight on. 

This sort of overreaction was typical. His days of recovery spent at home were filled with Tony trying to get him back into bed, with him insisting he needed more rest or needed to get more vegetables or drink more water. 

Someday Peter imagined this brand of helicopter parenting might drive him crazy, but for now, he bit back a smile as he flipped his pancakes. It was comforting. It reaffirmed the same message that the Iron Man plush had. That Tony isn’t going anywhere, and if he did, he certainly wouldn’t be leaving Peter behind.

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” pressed Tony.

“I have a leg wound,” said Peter. “I’m not an invalid, and it’s almost time for school.”

“Funny I thought we decided last night you were taking today to rest.”

Tony confiscated the spatula from Peter, gently bumped him over to the side and took over the pancake flipping. With a sigh, Peter took a seat at the kitchen table, carefully placing his crutches against the table so they wouldn’t fall over.

“You decided,” said Peter. “I’m ready to go back.”

Tony made a disgruntled noise but remained otherwise quiet while he finished up breakfast. He slid a plate in front of Peter, added a bottle of syrup to the table and sat down in the seat across from him. 

“I still think you should stay home.”

“Tony,” said Peter. Calling him by his first name was the new magic word, his new way of getting what he wanted, but it reminded Tony that he was no longer Mr. Stark. “I just want my life to go back to normal. I can’t stay home forever.”

He made another noise. This one more worried and relenting than the last one. “You’ll call me if you get to tired?”

“Yeah,” said Peter. He nodded his head. “Of course.” 

“Then I suppose you're right,” said Tony. “But also defective. What kind of teenager doesn’t take an extra day off school?”

Peter shrugged and laughed and ate his pancakes.

He left the penthouse that morning with renewed determination for a good day. He wouldn’t stay down anymore, even if he had to stand with crutches for a while. 

And his drive paid off. When he walked into school, he was immediately hit with good news. Spider-Man was back. He made a reappearance last night, and it was all the buzz in the hallways at Midtown.

Peter didn’t understand until he got to his locker. His was progress slow and steady thanks to his crutches and the stares they attracted, but once there, he pulled out his phone and checked the news.

SPIDER-MAN CAPTURES GUNMAN WHO SHOT TONY STARK’S WARD 

Different variations of the same article popped up onto his phone, but they all had a picture of the sticky left on the gunman who’d been webbed up outside on the steps of the police station. The note might have been signed Spider-Man, but it wasn’t his signature. It was Tony’s.

Peter grinned as he slid his phone into his pocket and opened his locker. He didn’t know what was better, the fact that the media was speculating about how Spider-Man apprehended a criminal before Tony Stark’s bots did or imagining Iron Man using his web-shooters to keep the spirit of Spider-Man alive.

Or maybe, the best part of all of it, was that the rumors in the hallway were true. Spider-Man was back. In spirit, and soon, in person.


End file.
